Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/283

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Some dreadful power of the place,

Wherein we live and breathe and move,

Which withers up the roots of Love

And dries the very springs of Grace.

It is the place!—For, lo, we are in hell.

That is the reason why!

And things that curse and writhe and things that die,

And earful festering things that rot,

—They have their place here. They are not

Like unfamiliar portents hurl'd

From out some monstrous, alien world.

This is their place, their native atmosphere,

Their home;—they are in keeping here!

And, being in hell,

All we, who breathe this tense, fierce air,

—On us too, lies the spell,

Something of that soul-deadening blight we share;

That even the eye is in a sense, made one

With what it looks upon;

That even the brain in some strange fashion wrought,

Twists its familiar thought

To forms and shapes uncouth;

And even the heart—the heart that once did feel

The surge of tears and pity's warm appeal—

Doth quite forget her ancient ruth,

Can look on piteous sights unmov'd,

As though, forsooth, poor fool! she had never lov'd.

They say we change, we men that come out here.

But do they know how great that change?

And do they know how darkly strange

Are those deep tidal waves that roll

Within the currents of the soul,

Down in the very founts of life,

Out here?